


Retrouvailles

by lazarus_girl



Series: Saudade Series [15]
Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 19:49:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> “Letting Emily go doesn’t mean she loves her any less.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Retrouvailles

**Author's Note:**

> Future fic. Set ten years after the end of S4. Follows Gen 2 canon. Written for [‘15genres1prompt’](http://15genres1prompt.livejournal.com/). Genre: Reunion. Prompt: Lost. Inspired by the Vienna Teng song [‘Recessional’](http://tinysong.com/IQZH). Thank you to [@cargoes](http://cargoes.tumblr.com/) for her beta skills and cheerleading.

***

 _“We are all mortal until the first kiss_  
 _and the second glass of wine.”_  
– Eduardo Galeano.

 _Who are you, the stranger in the shell of a lover,_  
 _Dark curtains drawn by the passage of time?_  
– Vienna Teng, ‘Recessional.’

***

**Heathrow Airport, London, 2020**

Most people wouldn’t want to thank an airline for delaying their flight. Ordinarily, she’d be up there ranting and raving with all the other people queuing to air their grievances and demand something be done – followed by some extortionate charge to fix it, just to add insult to injury. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t want to spend any longer than necessary milling in the crowded terminal, staving off boredom with overpriced _everything_ , dying under the too bright fluorescent lights and too cold air conditioning, but this isn’t anything like ordinary and she’s never been more thankful.

Fate is a strange thing. She’s never believed in God, not really, not a singular one, anyway. Elements of Hinduism and Buddhism have their appeal, but that might just be layover nostalgia from her gap year travels with Emily – a myriad of photos, an ill-advised bird tattoo, and a dull silver bracelet from Marrakesh on her left wrist all serve as reminders of her youthful hedonism. There’s always something that’s perturbed her about putting your entire faith into one thing. Whenever you place that much stock in something or someone, you’re likely to come out disappointed. Life hasn’t done much to prove otherwise. Fate though, she sort of believes in that. The purity of it, the mystery and the romantic heft it carries in just about everything she’s ever been drawn toward reading, watching, or listening to.

After all, what else but serendipity could explain that were it not for the fact her flight to Paris has been delayed – work, not pleasure – leaving her sitting in Terminal 5 nursing a coffee, picking at the edge of the cup, remnants falling to the floor unchecked, she probably would’ve never had the opportunity to cross paths with someone she hasn’t seen in ten years. Things have conspired in the right way for once. She has snow, of all things, to thank for this glimpse.

It’s all cause and effect.

***

Across from her, at the very customer service desk she should be standing at, talking to one of the airport staff is none other than Emily Fitch. Her Emily. Once. A long time ago. They were a minute ago and a lifetime ago. There she is, steps away instead of hundreds of miles like she once was. Emily’s twenty-eight instead of eighteen. Her hair is up, tidy and sleek apart from the odd tendril that’s escaping, coloured a dark chocolate brown, like it was when they first met at middle school. She’s dressed simply in black dress and heels, elegant, business-like, with a jacket over her arm. A world away from the girl who clashed every colour and pattern she could, with the most beautiful bright red cherry hair.

According to the crackling announcement ( _“We regret to inform passengers that flight BA1511 to New York ….”_ ) her flight’s been delayed too. She couldn’t help but scan the departures board, trying to pick where Emily might be going to, curiosity peaked. Los Angeles or New York perhaps, because Emily’s always wanted to go. Aberdeen maybe, because her mum’s side of the family still lives there. It’s good, from this distance, because there are places – such as airports – where it’s socially permissible to people watch without question. She’s used to seeing Emily at a distance, watching her like this, only it’s not from the back of a classroom anymore. Still, she finds herself drinking in details and trying to take in what’s changed. A lot, it seems.

She hasn’t moved for the last ten minutes. Transfixed. It doesn’t feel like she imagined. There was the shock of course, that initial jolt – whether her heart stopped or her heart stirred, she’s not certain – but in all the scenarios she’s imagined seeing her again: bus stop, train station, coffee shop, restaurant, she never pictured this one, and she never prepared for the elation, the thirsty curiosity she has building in her that’s making her want to call out. Dread, that was the thing she always imagined, heavy dread and possible anger, topped off with a great deal of awkwardness. It might be the glow of nostalgia; the trick of passing time that makes her forget the ugliness, the bitterness and the mistakes. Most of which were down to her, but some of them were Emily’s too. They lost each other somewhere along the way. She couldn’t pinpoint when that happened with any kind of accuracy. One day they were together, and the next, they weren’t.

It wasn’t a single act that broke them, not in the end. It was a multitude of things, all mounting up, stacking in some secret corner that neither of them could see or reach, until it was too much to take and there wasn’t room to breathe easily. When it became clear that love wasn’t enough anymore. She remembers every word of what would be their final conversation, but it’s always the last line that sticks. The sad look of resignation on Emily’s face as they sat, knees brushing on their worn-out sofa in their tiny flat.

_“It’s not working anymore, is it?”_

It was the right thing to do. A mutual and mature decision. The best outcome in an impossible situation; done out of love rather than spite. Better to come away as friends than enemies; to descend into the kind of hellishness that so often tears people apart – Emily’s parents included.

They cried. They kissed. They hugged. They said goodbye. They came away as separate people cleanly enough, but there are still threads left hanging. Threads that are desperate to weave themselves back together again, and she didn’t even know it until now.

Letting Emily go doesn’t mean she loves her any less.

***

The decision whether to react or just take this moment for what it is and move on is taken away, because the second Emily turns away from the desk, she looks right at her. There’s a few horrendously long seconds where they’re just looking at each other, unsure in all senses of the word. Emily’s burrows furrow, and she’s not sure if Emily recognises her at all, but then it happens. She practically hears the snap as recognition kicks and the connection is made. Like Emily does to her, she guesses she looks different to Emily.

_“Naomi …”_

She watches her name form on Emily’s lips, imagining the soft husky sound, echoing out from her memories.

Emily smiles. After everything, she smiles. It’s slow at first, as if she’s unsure whether to let herself give in to the expression, the emotion, but then it broadens; and it’s bright and beautiful and everything she remembers. She’s on her feet before she realises, bag on her shoulder, moving towards her, and Emily’s doing the same, weaving through the other passengers; heels clicking confidently across the floor. There have been millions of meetings, reunions like this, and that knowledge tempers the moment, knocks it down a few notches in her mind and makes it easier to breathe. It’s everything and nothing. Everything to her, to them, and nothing out of the ordinary to everyone else. She’s concerned with how she looks for the first time in a long time, wondering what she’ll think of the fact she’s not blonde anymore, and lives in jeans, blazers and ballet pumps when she’s working and mostly when she’s not. It’s an easy uniform.

When they finally meet, it’s not the cliché she’s seen in films. There’s no slow-motion spinning hug. They stop a few steps before they should, just looking at each other. Emily’s gaze flicks up and down her body, and she can feel her cheeks reddening with embarrassment, shy under her scrutiny in a way no one else has ever been able to inspire.

“Hi,”

“Hi,” she replies, with a needless wave.

They both laugh nervously, and the tension dissipates as quickly as it settled in the air.

“Oh God, come here!” Emily exclaims, dropping her own bag and pulling her into a hug.

It’s stiff and overly careful, because they’ve forgotten the boundaries, and they’re half stuck between what’s proper and what’s not. She lets herself relax a little, hands resting barely on Emily’s back. It’s odd at first, because Emily’s heels mean they’re the same height, and she’s not used to it. She’s not used to the brush of Emily’s hair against her hand as she slides it downwards. She’s not used to the different sweet lingering scent of a perfume she never used to wear. In there somewhere, underneath all these layers of new and different is her Emily. That sweet, shy, quietly ferocious girl who meant everything to her.

“You look well,” Emily comments smiling a little, regarding her again when she steps back.

“You too …” she stops short before she says anything ridiculous that she can’t take back. “It’s nice to see you,” she ventures, softly, and regrets that straight away.

The look on Emily’s face tells her the feeling might be mutual.

“I like this,” Emily gestures vaguely, like she can’t believe what or who she’s looking at.

She touches her hair, self-conscious, because it’s curled and sleek. She’s more made-up than usual because she’s in work mode, meant to be ready to network and shoot her camera the second she lands at Charles De Gaulle, whenever that turns out to be. Until then, she’s at the mercy of the weather and British Airways, and rather at a loose end.

“Thanks,” she glances away, wondering if she should chance things past pleasantries. The worst thing Emily can say is no. “Would you, erm,” she pauses, switching her laptop bag on to her other side. “Like to get a drink or, a bite to eat, maybe?” Before Emily can open her mouth, she adds, hurriedly, “ It’ll kill some time if nothing else.”

Emily tilts her head, eyes soft. She’s immediately comforted. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a memory is flagged up. That’s Emily’s sign for ‘Naomi, you’re being ridiculous.’ She is, obviously, but everything was always so delicate and now it feels ten times more precious and easy to break. Whatever _it_ is.

“I’d love to.”

***

Hours, and several glasses of wine later, they’re still in Carluccio’s – pinot grigio for old time’s sake - with their risotto plates cleared, and the scant remains of gelato in front of them, in spite of the cold weather. They smiled as they ordered, playing with the cliché of it all, ordering the most obvious thing they could muster. Their charming, slick-haired waiter obviously didn’t know whether to laugh or not. They’re both well-travelled enough to know there’s more to Italy than risotto, but it was fun anyway. A lot better than the often mind-numbingly boring work lunches that are fast becoming the norm.

The awkwardness is gone, mostly, but they’re still getting used to each other. Both still trying to match up the memories of who they were with who they are. They’ve given each other the edited highlights. The polite version of events. It’s too early for anything else.

She’s ignored her phone every time it’s buzzed in her pocket. Work could wait.

With everything they have to catch up on, there’s been little time for conversation to dry up. Even then, the silences aren’t uncomfortable. They never were.

They’ve gotten through everything: their uni years, when they finally made it there (York in her case, and Manchester in Emily’s); her mum and Kieran, happily married and living in Belfast; Emily’s parents still miraculously together, now living on the Cornish coast; Katie living in France and working as au pair; James backpacking somewhere around Australia with Gordon Macpherson, which spurred them on to talking about their travel experiences; and inevitably to how they came to be at the airport at all.

First, there was Emily’s disastrous time as a temp in London straight out of university, versus her time as a glorified dogsbody working for a gossip magazine. Then, came the longer tale of Emily’s trip to New York, crossing paths with Effy, and another chance meeting with none other than _the_ Kathy Lavelle that lead her to end up working for d2 Publicity.

All the while, she watched, happy to let Emily talk, taking in all the things that had changed (how confident she’d become, how settled in her skin), and how some things hadn’t changed at all (the low, raspy softness in her voice, the lightness in it when she was excited to share something).

Though it was hard to top the d2 story – not that it felt like a competition at all – she countered that, modestly, with her own story picked up out of oblivion while on her travels in Berlin. Her photographs caught the eye of a man at Reuters, and five years later, she’s one of their most successful photojournalists. Her photographs aren’t iconic, not in a Kevin Carter or The Bang Bang Club way, not yet at least, but she’s proud of them. She’s prouder still at the smile on Emily’s face when she learned they might be exhibited soon.

“Maybe you can recruit d2 to handle it for you?” Emily suggests, between sips of wine. “They have a very good junior press officer, I’m told,” she continues, leaning forward, playing with the pendant around her neck.

It’s only now that she realises Emily’s nails are painted cherry red; a splash of colour to match her lipstick.

“Really?” she bites, playing along. “I think I’d like to meet them.”

“She has a card … if you’d want one? She can be terribly old fashioned about some things, I hear.”

She nods, and Emily reaches into her bag and then slides the card across the table towards her. Their hands touch when they meet in the middle, and she looks down, taking all too long to move her hand away. She slips the card into her pocket, busying herself by taking a longer-than-is-polite sip of wine. Her mind’s playing tricks. She didn’t feel anything, her heart’s not racing. The flush in Emily’s cheeks is because of the alcohol.

“This is … nice isn’t it?” Emily says after a moment, with a wistful sigh, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“Yeah. It is,” she smirks, trying to hold back the laughter that wants to erupt. This is nowhere near what she imagined. There’s no residual anger, no tension, only happiness, and pride. Sentimental perhaps, but nonetheless true. “Beats chips on Brandon Hill doesn’t it?” she continues, looking at Emily through her lashes, barely chancing a proper look.

This feels like dangerous territory.

Emily lets out a laugh and then she laughs too. It’s sweet, in a pathetic way, that it was the best they could do, that they never had a chance to do things like this because they were too young, too skint, and had too much else to deal with. In her head, she thought about nights like this, in expensive restaurants, dressed up, adult and decadent. It’s a lot better than she imagined.

“I don’t know,” she replies, thoughtful, fingertip circling the top of her wine glass, “I think it had a certain level of charm.”

There’s a look in Emily’s eyes she knows well, dark and seductive, reeling her in, quite different to when they were younger, but the ghost of that attraction is there. It’s a pointed message, yes, she’s being flirted with. She likes it.

“Are you seeing anyone?” The second the question trips off her tongue, far too blunt, she curses internally. “Jesus, that’s nothing to do with me. It’s none of my business. I’m sorry.”

“No, no,” Emily’s hand reaches across the table, touching hers, leaving it there. “It’s fine,” she takes a breath, as if choosing her words carefully. “Not really. There have been other girls but …” she tails off, sighing a little.

“They haven’t quite lived up to what you hoped?”

It’s not what she meant to say, not completely. She meant to say that Emily’s set this impossibly high standard and no one else has come anywhere near reaching it, let alone exceeding it.

“Something like that,” Emily replies, and there’s something so sad about it.

Regret and guilt surge up into her throat, and she wants to tell her the truth. Emily always made her want to confess things. Even things that had to be dragged out of her.

When she considers it, retrospectively, as they have been all night – thinking about what they were together without really talking about their time together – what they shared was startlingly brief, all told. She blamed herself for a long time, but right now, it just feels like they weren’t in the right place at the right time, emotionally or otherwise. Tonight has inklings of the right time. Seeds that might grow into it, should they let it. They had such promise. The promise of much more is in the air all around them. An undercurrent that’s been crackling away all evening is getting louder. She shouldn’t want this. There are a million reasons why she shouldn’t be wishing for their flights to be cancelled altogether, so they have to stay over in some faceless chain hotel. It would be so easy to fall into bed, and not think about the consequences (they were good at masking their problems with sex). To have one night together, and truly close the chapter on who they were.

Except, it’s not that simple. One night would never be enough, and there’s no way Emily’s stable, solid life in New York would fit with her nomadic existence, boomeranging back and forth, racking up airmiles. It’s a futile hope. A dream. Something for that special place in her head called ‘What If?’

“We were good. Weren’t we?” she says, half statement, half question, as if she’s making sure what she remembers is true, or just her warped take on it.

“We definitely had our moments, Naoms.”

At that, she smiles, feeling herself choke up. Emily squeezes her hand.

“We did. We did.”

It feels like they’ve made peace somehow.

Before she can say anything else. The tannoy bursts to life again with an announcement.

_“Flight BA1511 to New York is now boarding at gate ….”_

The rest is lost as Emily springs up from her seat. “Christ, they pick their times, don’t they?” she exclaims as she gathers her belongings, throwing on her jacket hurriedly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK, you go. I can get this. Don’t worry,” she stands, gesturing to the dessert yet to be cleared.

“Oh, are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” she nods for good measure.

“I’ll send you my half?”

“Don’t be silly!”

Out of habit, she reaches around, folding the collar of Emily’s jacket the right way, knuckles grazing her neck. There’s a small tattoo, a symbol of some kind, that she didn’t notice before.

“Let’s do this again, sometime. Call me when you’re free?” Emily suggests, looking loathe to leave at all. Utterly torn.

She nods, cautious but hopeful. “I’d like that.”

Emily reaches to hug her again. It lingers too long. When she draws back, Emily presses a brief kiss to her cheek. As soon as it’s over, she wants it to happen again, and more.

“Take care,” Emily says, eyes soft, clasping her hand briefly.

“Travel safe,” she ventures, with a nervous smile.

“You too.”

That’s no empty sentiment or polite gesture. Emily means it.

She wants to say something else to her. She wants to ask Emily if she feels the same. To ask if this means what she thinks it means. There’s no time.

The announcement is repeated, and with one familiar lingering look that she still can’t fathom the weight and meaning of, Emily turns away, walking off towards the boarding gate. She stands stock still, watching Emily’s retreating figure. Sliding her hands into her jeans pocket, she remembers the business card.

Maybe she already knows the answer to the question.

***

 **Post Script:** The title of the story can’t be directly translated, as there is no English equivalent for this French word, but it’s said to convey the happiness people feel when meeting again after a long time apart.


End file.
